Chapter 1: I Accidentally Sat On A Ceo

Adeline’s POV 

“I'm definitely going to get arrested for this.”

I mutter it under my breath as I approach a Mercedes G-Class, phone raised. October sunlight hits the glossy black paint, the car glowing against the gray Manhattan sidewalk, screaming money I'll never have.

Perfect.

The internet loves rich girls.

I'm just borrowing the illusion. My last reel barely reached two hundred views. So much for my grand plan to escape poverty by becoming a content creator overnight. Grad school doesn't pay for itself, and my two part-time jobs barely leave me enough time to sleep.

So I fake it. Good lighting is free. Wealthy neighborhoods are free. Looking like I belong for twenty seconds? Also free. And who says no to free stuff? Certainly not me.

Today's luxury collection consists of an oversized cream sweater hanging off my shoulders, twelve dollars at a Brooklyn thrift store. Jeans with a hole in the knee I didn't pay extra for. “It's vintage, darling,” the trader said. I was gullible enough to believe him. My brown boots have seen better years.

But stand in the right light, tilt the camera and crop out reality. Suddenly I'm not broke. I'm a freaking influencer!

I stop beside the driver's door and check my reflection in the boutique window. Messy waves because I skipped the blow dryer. Or more like I didn't pay my electric bill on time. In this sunlight my hazel eyes swirl close to gold.

Filters can handle the rest.

I'm mid-pose, phone lifted, when I hear that laugh. Every muscle in my back locks because I know that high-pitched laugh. Everyone at Columbia does.

Bianca Fucking Moretti.

Engine noise rumbles through the street before her cherry-red convertible pulls alongside the G-Class. Her shiny blonde hair whips through the wind like a walking shampoo commercial. Designer sunglasses perched perfectly on her head, and three friends draped across the leather seats as if placed there for a magazine shoot.

I glue myself to the car. ‘Please don't see me.’

"Adeline?" Her voice carries out. "Is that you?"

‘Nooo, it's my twin sister, Chadeline.’ My eyes almost roll to the back of my head.

I lower my phone, trying to look like I'm doing anything else, checking messages, reading a caption. Certainly not posing next to a car I'll never sit inside.

"Bianca." I force a smile. "Fancy meeting you somewhere that isn't making my day worse."

Bianca slides her sunglasses down her nose, eyes gleaming. "I didn't know you could even get into this neighborhood. Oh nice car."

One of her friends leans forward with exaggerated excitement. "Wait... is this the one you bought after all those shifts at the coffee shop? Good for you."

"No, Chloe. Look at her boots." Another giggles. "If she owns that Mercedes, then I'm the Queen of England."

"Is it yours?" Bianca tilts her head just enough to tell me she already knows the answer. She knows I take the train, knows about my two part-time jobs and knows I once counted coins at the Trader Joe's checkout because my card came up short. My tax bracket can't even spell Mercedes.

‘No, it's not mine, you demonic barbie.’ My mouth parts to say exactly that but it has its own plan.

"It is."

Why did I say that?

Four years of Bianca finding new ways to remind me exactly where I ranked. Scholarship girl, thrift-store girl, the girl showing up with Tupperware leftovers while everyone else ordered $40 sushi, rotating the same thrift finds while the rest swapped stories about their dads arranging internships over scotch. She'd already taken enough from me. She wasn't getting this too.

"Really?" Her tone dares me.

‘Tell her you're joking. Don't dig this hole.’ But I won't hand this moment to her.

"You don't think I can afford it?"

"Then prove it," Bianca says, leaning back against her seat.

Phones are out, her friends look way too eager to watch my public execution. They're going to talk about this until graduation.

Bianca's thumb taps her screen, and the little red LIVE icon flashes into existence. My stomach flips. She has over 700k followers. "Hi, lovies!" She beams at the camera before swinging it toward me. "You'll never believe who finally joined the rich girls' club. Our darling Adeline bought herself a G-Wagon. Let's congratulate her.”

I am officially past the point of no return. Back out now and I'm a pathetic fraud for the rest of my years at Columbia and the Internet.

My feet take agonizing steps toward the driver's side door. My hand wraps around the handle, the metal warm from the sun. I've watched enough viral skits to know the play. Pretend I forgot my keys in a café nearby, act annoyed, walk away with my 40% dignity intact.

The handle gives beneath my hand and the door swings open before I can pretend I forgot my keys. My head spins, and for one terrifying second, I think I might actually pass out.

No.

No no no.

My brain logs off when the handle clicks and the door swings open under my hand. My heartbeat gets so loud everything else disappears.

A man looks up from his phone. Dark hair brushed neatly back. A charcoal suit fitted so perfectly it should be illegal. Steel-gray eyes settle on me without panic or surprise. Only hinting irritated at the interruption and his thumb remains suspended above his phone.

His eyes pin me in place.

I am so dead. I should pick up my thrifted boots and run until the city swallows my shame but Bianca and her entourage are practically standing in the convertible to see what's happening, and there is only one thought left. Commit or be humiliated forever.

My body moves before my brain logs back on.

I slide in.

We freeze.

His hands brush barely against my waist before lifting to avoid it. A single muscle ticks in his jaw. He breathes normally, warm air fanning across my chin while I realize I've been holding mine. His eyes stay on mine, so calm to make my own panic feel embarrassingly loud.

Cedar reaches me, mixed with something darker. Oud, maybe. Expensive either way. 

"Shut the door." His raspy deep voice rolls into my ears.

I blink at him, then I realize he's talking to me. I pull the door shut, hands trembling. "Please," I whisper. "Wait for them to leave and I swear I'll explain everything.”

Outside, Bianca's convertible makes a show of its engine, phones lowering. Through the tinted glass I see her face one last time, the smirk faltering. The light flashes green and they drive off into the city.

The air inside the car feels heavy. The air conditioner does nothing for the heat under my skin.

"I see you're making yourself quite comfortable."

I'm still sitting on his lap like I belong there. I quickly scramble to the passenger seat and press myself against the door. "I'm so sorry. I swear I'm not usually a carjacker…I'm so sorry."

He straightens one sleeve, then plucks a single strand of my ginger hair from his jacket between two fingers. He looks at it for a second before letting it drift to the floor.

"Explain without the rambling," he says, his Italian accent faint beneath the words.

"I lied."

He says nothing. Somehow that's worse.

"She asked if the car was mine."

Silence.

"I panicked."

More silence.

"The door opened."

His expression doesn't change.

"I honestly thought it was empty." I press both hands over my face. "This is probably trespassing, it's definitely trespassing but please don't file a lawsuit."

When I finally stop, the silence stretches long enough that I start calculating how fast I can reach the door handle. He glances toward the street where Bianca disappeared, then back at me. His fingers rest against his knee while his eyes move over my face.

"So..." He leans back, his gaze never leaving mine. "You lied about owning my car. That's an unusual way to introduce yourself."

As he talks, my gaze slips away from his face and lands on a large rust-colored stain near the floor mat.

My breath falters.

Wine. Rich people drink expensive red wine. Right?

He notices me looking with a tilt of his head. My heart slams into my throat.

"S-sir I swear it was a mistake. I'll turn myself in to the police if you want." My hand finds the door handle, trying to escape. My fingers close around the handle. I pull and nothing. I pull harder. The lock doesn't budge.

Before I can try again, his fingers close around my wrist, pulling me back toward him. I can count his dark lashes from how close we are.

“No one leaves until I say the conversation is over.” His gaze lingers on my hair. "Little ginger," he murmurs, as though he'd finally decided what to call the problem sitting in his car.

I gulp. I've messed with the wrong person.

He watches me another second, one finger tapping once against the leather armrest. "You lie very easily." Silence settles between us again. Long enough that my fingers twitch toward the door handle. "You'll repay me."

"...Excuse me?" If he's expecting money, he is about to be deeply disappointed.

"I need a companion for social functions." His gaze meets mine. "One month. Then we're even."

"You want me to go to events with you? Sir this isn't a Chinese series…" He cuts me off.

"Agree, and I'll let this slide. Unless you'd prefer I report the incident." He tilts his head, watching the panic return to my face. "I imagine the police would find the security footage quite entertaining.”

Come to think of it, it sounds ridiculous hearing it from him. “Report me for this? Please, I can easily say I entered by mistake.”

“You can try if that works behind bars.”

He says it so calmly that I don't know whether he's bluffing, or sitting on enough influence to turn something stupid into a serious problem. With a man like him, I'm not willing to find out. This is basically blackmail, but I got myself into this, and I can't let a criminal record reach Columbia's Dean.

Hold on. The way out is right there. Pretend for a month, avoid expulsion, let Bianca's little show fall apart on its own. How hard could this go?

"One month." I lift my chin. "Then we're done."

He holds out his hand. "Albert Rossi."

 His hand is warm when I take it, his grip firm. That's all. I still pull mine away too fast.

"Adeline Carter."

He produces a business card from his wallet, heavyweight stock, his name and one word underneath it. CEO. My chest pulls.

"My assistant will send the details. First event Saturday." His gaze moves over my thrifted sweater, my wrecked jeans, the bare slope of my shoulder where the fabric slipped. "Do you own formalwear?"

Heat moves up my neck. "What do you think I own?" I snap before breathing in. "Don't worry, I'll manage."

His mouth almost moves but he flattens it. "I'll handle the wardrobe. Part of the agreement."

"Um, since we're organizing the terms." I clear my throat. "Do I get paid as well? Like an appearance f*e?"

His mouth finally curves. I hate that I notice.

"No."

Before I can retort he nods toward the door. I grab the handle and step out, the door closing behind me with a final click. The engine purrs as the G-Class pulls into traffic and disappears toward Park Avenue.

I look down at the card in my hand, his cologne still clinging to my sweater.

My screen lights up.

Unknown number: Gala event Saturday, 7 PM. Car will collect you at 6:30pm. Dress will arrive Friday —M. Romano, Executive Assistant to Mr. Rossi.

They have my address just like that. Of course they do. Men like Albert Rossi don't do anything halfway, though apparently he's too greedy to pay me for my premium presence.

The screen lights up again. Different number entirely and my smile dies.

NUL/: Walk away from Albert Rossi before he destroys you. This is your only warning.